


All In

by thesignsofserbia



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Not Season/Series 03 Compliant, Post-Reichenbach, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, Story: The Adventure of the Three Garridebs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-29
Updated: 2018-01-29
Packaged: 2019-03-11 02:21:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13514718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesignsofserbia/pseuds/thesignsofserbia
Summary: There are moments in life where time stops, and all you can feel is one singular point of terror. It’s instant nausea, it’s the breath stuttering in your chest, every organ dropping, the ice crystallising down your spine. It’s that one thought that eclipses all else, that one feeling, that one, two letter word.





	All In

 

Sherlock refuses to shake his brother’s hand.

He means no disrespect, and Mycroft isn’t insulted; upset certainly, but he takes no offense. The strain in his face is something Sherlock has seen many times; Mycroft believes Sherlock is wrong, that Sherlock’s naivety is blinding him to the gravity of the situation. Mycroft thinks Sherlock is about to make a catastrophic mistake.

_It’s not that high, I won’t fall._

_He can’t die, My; he’s my best friend._

_I’m not addicted, I can stop anytime I like._

_I’m not involved._

_Moriarty has a weakness. I can find it; I can **win**._

He knows these protestations hurt his brother, and it’s why he worries. Because Mycroft sees what Sherlock refuses to. It isn’t just pessimism, and every time Sherlock goes into battle; Mycroft braces himself for the inevitable. Because Sherlock doesn’t see sense, he never listens, and every time; it only ends in disaster. Every single time.

Age seven; Sherlock breaks his arm.

Age nine; pancreatic cancer kills his dog.

Age twenty-four; he’s convulsing on the bathroom tiles.

Age thirty-five; and it’s already far too late.

Age thirty-six; Sherlock is standing on the rooftop of a hospital, about to take his own life.

Sherlock is always wrong. But not _this_ time, this time is _different_ , and Sherlock refuses to say goodbye.

“I’m coming back.”

Mycroft is devastated. His little brother; throwing his life away.

~

This time; Sherlock is _right_.

~

They debrief him. Two years of work summed up in one excruciating conversation.

Despite the intensity, the depth they reach, of everything these two men hear today; not a single word will make the slightest bit of difference in their lives. He knows as soon as they leave the room, when paperwork is completed, report submitted; Sherlock’s story is finished, never to be thought of again. As far as they’re concerned, that’s the end.

They don’t care that, for Sherlock; this is his _life_ , and these words will always be a part of him.

They keep him four hours. The questions needle; they probe deep. Eventually, he starts to shut down. It doesn’t stop them, they demand everything.

Eyes glazed, he’s numb enough that half the time, he has no idea what he says.

Numbness is not what they want; they’re seeking raw pain. Every second of every day, they want it all. Sherlock does what he’s told, laying out his movements in minute detail; obscure facts, vivid descriptions. He explains everything he saw, heard, and did, without hesitation, as questions become increasingly irrelevant.

They ask, and they ask; what did he hear, what did it sound like? He tells them that when he screamed for death; the note was an A sharp.

He feels the blood drip as he describes how he lost it, feels the heat as the words recount the flames that burnt him. The cloth brushes his lips as he speaks of the bag forced over his head, and his lungs choke on the water that follows. Sherlock starts physically coughing. He twitches with every crack of the whip, and has to fight the nausea at every turn of phrase.

You’d never believe he was home. You’d think interrogation would end there.

When the room empties; Sherlock stays seated; the perfect little soldier.

People are talking. There’s words all around.

His brother is crouched before him, and it’s all Sherlock can do to focus on his face.

“Did you hear what I said? Sherlock?”

~

It’s a beautiful room. Antiques and expensive sheets.

Sherlock does not remember how he got here.

~

One step out the door, and England is all around. Black cabs rush by. A Tottenham shirt, a Liverpool accent. Tube stations, Marks and Spencer’s, an obsolete red telephone box. The rush never comes; it’s just another city.

As he walks, Sherlock knows this was supposed to be his victory. But the air tastes bitter on his tongue. Sherlock doesn’t like the laughter, the oblivious smiles.

Moriarty would have torn this city apart; his people poised to take control of the streets. There was a terror attack planned for Trafalgar Square, one Sherlock took a knife through his kidney to prevent. Guns, explosives, methamphetamine, a plot for a sect to extend their human trafficking network to Brixton. Far too much activity to ignore.

From day one, Sherlock saw the pattern emerging. New enterprises, budding schemes, by his calculations, _sixty three percent_ of everything immediately in the works; all concentrated down on just 1572 square kilometres. An international criminal empire with seeds scattered across the globe, Moriarty could have chosen from hundreds of countries, thousands of cities. But where would be the fun in that? London is _Sherlock’s_ city, and every game must have its trophy.

Four times MI6 coerced him to do their dirty work; detours that cost him two months in total. Sherlock has absolutely no interest in thwarting every bank heist or suicide bomber. _Sherlock’s_ goal was to dissect the strands, and eradicate it as an _entity._ Distractions are dangerous, and one slip of focus could be lethal. But no one cared about that; Sherlock’s mission was secondary to his _convenience_.

London will never give a damn for his sacrifice; they’ll never even know.

He feels _used._

~

“Congratulations brother; you are officially retired,” Mycroft drawls; a fact Sherlock doesn’t care to know, and even less to hear.

Official means exactly squat; they’ll never get another day from him regardless.

“Hmm.”

“Permanently inactive; they won’t call on you again.”

Sherlock scoffs; MI6 would use any excuse to keep him on the books.

Inactive does not mean retired; he’s an asset in hibernation. Sherlock doubts they will ever truly let him go. Six months, four if he’s especially unlucky. The call will come, they’ll be an excuse, a reminder of his _obligation to country_. But whatever leverage they find to coerce him; he’ll tell them to let London burn.

Sherlock is finished.

~

Mycroft says he should go. So again, he does what he’s told, and walks all the way across town.

The coat is warm, and it smells familiar. It would; he wore it for many years. It’s a little too big now; just enough to be frustrating, perhaps he’ll take it to a tailor. His hair is too short as well, closer cropped than he’d like, especially at the sides, but there’s nothing to be done about that.

There’s no answer to his knocking.

He leaves.

Walking down the steps, the key bumps against his leg untouched. He gets barely two hundred meters down the road before shoes slap against concrete, and the fist in his sleeve is almost enough to throw him to the pavement.

A rooftop may be a good vantage point, but it does not allow for detail. Seeing a face from six storeys up; it just doesn’t compare. The last time they spoke, John was little more than a dot on the ground.

Sherlock sees less of him than he did then with the speed of movement, but he feels the crush. Mycroft warned of many things, but by now, Sherlock is used to people hurting him. Deliberate, accidental; motive no longer matters.

John Watson doesn’t hurt; he _hugs_. And Sherlock is not quite sure how to react. John’s voice is muffled against his coat, but the sheer emotion in the sentence is overwhelming.

“Mycroft said. He _said,_ but I couldn’t believe it.”

_Mycroft._

Used again.

Sherlock was supposed to be the one, John was supposed to hear it from him. Mycroft ruined their reunion; the big reveal. All he feels is irritation. Six months ago, he would have been _furious_ to lose such an important moment, to have it stolen; it would have meant _everything_ to him. It bothers him that it no longer does.

“It’s good to see you.”

John chokes, wiping at his eyes and pulling back to look at him properly.

“It’s really you. Your face, your voice. You came back.”

The fists don’t come out. A beating he’d thought to be inevitable. Generally now, when people recognise him, they try to inflict as much pain, in as short an amount of time as possible, and John has more right than most. There’s a snap-freeze ice pack in his coat pocket.

He looks into John Watson’s eyes for the first time in two years, and knows his heart is well and truly dead. Because it doesn’t hurt. It doesn’t _anything._

“It was never supposed to take this long. I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you.”

He means it, but no matter how he tries, it doesn’t have the softness it should. It’s a fight to keep his expression from slipping to neutral.

John just shakes his head repeatedly, trying to rein in everything he’s feeling. It’s not working particularly well. Sherlock really wishes they didn’t have to do this on the street.

“Aren’t you going to hit me?”

The head shaking intensifies, and to Sherlock’s horror; John starts to laugh. It’s not the dangerous kind; John often smiles before striking, but this has nothing to do with rage. It’s a substitute for falling apart.

_“No.”_

He doesn’t like it. What has Mycroft said? There’s so many details he might have fed John, private things, truth and lies in equal measure. John _should_ be angry, but something has been said to soften the blow, and that makes him uneasy. There are a great many things Sherlock does not want John to know. No one has the right to choose for him.

Mycroft’s meddling in his life is not acceptable. Sherlock is not the same man who left, and he is not going to tolerate anything; from anyone. Not anymore.  If Mycroft has betrayed his trust; Sherlock will retaliate, and running for cover is strongly recommended.

No one owns him anymore, not Moriarty, not Mycroft, and _not_ MI6. Sherlock is out of the cage. And he is _angry._

Sherlock will not be underestimated again.

John hugs him tightly. The impact is hard, but Sherlock is so much stronger now; his body doesn’t so much as sway under John’s weight. It took him completely by surprise. Which is concerning, because if it were anyone else, this could easily have ended in disaster.

Somehow, his transport knew it was John grabbing him.

“Come inside?” John’s eyes are sad, but more; they’re hesitant.

~

Sherlock’s eyes don’t leave John for a second.

He just talks, with no idea where the sentences will lead. Slow, and calm, it’s still a fragmented story. There was never a plan for how much he would tell, but this interrogation is different. Because _Sherlock_ is in control, and there’s freedom to say only what he wants.

John hears things MI6 will never know, and Sherlock holds back on many of the things they do.

It’s not protection, John Watson is a strong man. Even all of it, the most graphic parts; Sherlock could retell every gruesome syllable, and John could sit through it. He’s not even afraid for him to know, it’s just so exhausting, striping himself raw for an audience, over and over.

Regretting words already spoken is a part of life. Maybe he will wake up tomorrow morning and wish to take it all back. But maybe letting it out will show him a way to feel again.

He senses the focus makes John uncomfortable, but looking away is impossible.

It’s not the honesty, or even the words he says, it’s not his emotion; it’s the _lack._

Wishing to cry is not something he thought he’d ever want. He just feels the need to prove that any of it matters.

Sherlock speaks like a soldier, he _sounds_ like he’s MI6. With a brief mention of torture, he talks about false identities, being hunted like an animal, and murder in cold blood without so much as a change in tone. He slips in a dry anecdote about being a better shot than John now.

He wishes he couldn’t hear himself.

It’s clear time has left him hardened. Perhaps he _is_ that person now, the man he said he was when they first met. Sherlock wants to tell John that he knows how it sounds, wants to assure him that he’s not the robot he seems.

But how would he even begin to explain it?

Sentiment is dangerous, and weakness comes hand in hand. Sherlock may hate it at times, but it’s _necessary;_ sentiment is a vital and important aspect of human existence. Life without it is surreal. It’s _wrong._

“I missed you John.”

John has never looked so concerned.

“Are you alright Sherlock?”

It takes him by surprise, because John shouldn’t be asking that question, and it’s ridiculous that he has to. Because if there’s one thing that Sherlock should, _must,_ do; it’s that. But he hasn’t so much as asked John how he is. All John has is one, soulless _sorry._

Sherlock wants John to see an open face; kindness and care. See that he is aware of the coldness seeping from his bones, that he doesn’t _mean_ _it._ The narrator is not a reflection of the man he is, and it’s important John know that Sherlock genuinely _is_ sorry, but he can’t quite reach the depth he’s searching for. It’s the big picture, but not the whole one; it’s missing several parts, and they just happen to be the most essential. Sherlock wants to kill the man with the eraser.

“I’m working on it,” Sherlock concedes, and hopes John can understand. He pauses, unable to shake the intensity. How sharp his eyes must be.

It’s not quite a lie. He _wants_ to; the problem, is that he has no starting point. There’s no apparent crack in the walls of his palace, mind perhaps more stable than it’s ever been. He’s _fine,_ and he _shouldn’t_ be. Sherlock is struggling to find the parts of him that _aren’t;_ he’s looking for them, the ones he _knows_ exist, the ones that haunted, terrorised, and choked him. All that’s left is the anger. Is it masochistic of him to want that pain back?

Sherlock doesn’t remember where he lost it. He just pushed it down, and kept pushing until he couldn’t find it anymore. You can’t immerse yourself in a task you can’t _see._

“Okay.” John still sounds unsure.

Sherlock doesn’t stay the night. Even when John looks desperate for him not to go.

~

“Why are you here?”

Mycroft’s curiosity is laced with alarm. He was not expecting to find Sherlock back under his roof.

“In case you hadn’t noticed; I currently live here.” He drawls the words, dodging the underlying question.

Sherlock continues to flick through the book. It’s one of his favourites from when he was a child, he’s always had a fascination with bees. He wonders when Mycroft pilfered it. The library is even better than the one at the estate; he could never bring himself to hate Mycroft’s home, no matter how pompous.

It’s a beautiful old house, mansion really, heavy stone of the finest quality. It’s huge, but never feels empty, always a fire in the hearth to welcome you in. Granted, the suits of armour are a bit much, but everything else is so intricately crafted. Five bedrooms, four bathrooms, a kitchen bigger than Mrs Hudson’s flat, and that spectacular marble staircase.

He could write an essay about this house.

“Sherlock...”

Mycroft’s face is drawn and tight. Sherlock’s eyes remain glued to page two hundred and seventy two.

“I know.”

~

They go out for lunch, and Sherlock eats nothing but the spinach.

“I don’t like this.”

John sighs affectionately, only half frustrated.

“Then why did you order it, you git?”

It tastes fine; he just happens to be in the mood for spinach rather than the rest. The quiche, he has no issues with.

“Lunch John. We’re having lunch. In a _restaurant_.”

John laughs, but he’s never heard a sound more strained.

“Yeah, I sort of noticed that.”

Sherlock wonders if this is going to be a regular thing now. Just friends catching up for a casual meal. It’s not awkward exactly, but they don’t say very much, perhaps they’re beginning to realise there’s not all that much to talk about. He fervently hopes they’re not about to start a running commentary on the weather.

“John.”

John deflates. It doesn’t fit and they both know it. Why pretend?

“Well what do you _suggest_ we do? I want to _see_ you Sherlock, but we’re not working cases, and you’re still living all the way across town; with _Mycroft._ You haven’t moved back home, and I don’t understand why. Why won’t you?”

Sherlock blinks.

“You never asked.”

It’s _not_ his home anymore, and after all the damage he’s done, it only makes sense to be unwelcome. He hates that John is trying so hard, and he can’t seem to stop hurting him.

John’s angry now, and people are starting to look.

“Since when did you ever need an _invitation?_ If you don’t want to, why can’t you just come out and fucking _say_ it? Tell me Sherlock; tell me what you want. Because right now, it sure as hell isn’t me.”

Angry and confused; just hurting more and more. Sherlock feels lost for words; he never meant to upset him.

It’s silent, but he knows somewhere, a part of him is screaming, begging to him to _say_ something, to start fixing this mess. He wants to let it out, because he doesn’t know how, and with every word, he’s only making things worse. But his heart is in protective custody; designed not to be found, especially when he’s looking.

Without it, he can’t seem to do anything right.

“Baker Street is the only place I’ve wanted to be for two years John. I wanted nothing but to see you.”

John looks at Sherlock, and hates him a little he knows, because that composure never so much as quivers. It’s a revelation that should carry so much weight; an admission of longing, of pain, of hope. It could, and should, have been heartfelt, the spark that brings them back together. But it’s not any of those things, it’s a statement of fact. It’s past tense.

“And now?”

“I still do.”

He answers too quickly.

John frowns, perhaps he thinks Sherlock is only doing this because he asked, and in a way, it’s true. Moving in makes perfect sense, Baker Street is where he _should_ be. Sherlock likes that flat, he chose it out of hundreds. It houses all his belongings, and financially, he’ll be getting a good deal as far as rent is concerned.

Logic, practicality; he hates that those arguments even entered his head. Right now, Sherlock is _comfortable_ living with Mycroft. It’s not about wanting to, or even preference; Sherlock is comfortable there just because he _is._ The desire to move back is there, but it’s not overwhelming. There’s no passion, no hunger.

It should be killing him.

Perhaps his heart is hiding in that flat. Perhaps John can help him find it.

“So you’ll come home?”

Sherlock nods, chewing slowly.

“I’ll come home.”

~

“You know,” John says softly, and there’s more than a little bitterness there, “When you smile Sherlock, you’re supposed to _mean_ _it.”_

He walks away into the kitchen, while Sherlock stands on the threshold, only box of possessions in his arms, and can’t tell either way if he did.

~

“John?”

Sherlock looks up abruptly from his microscope into the next room, where John is swearing at his crossword.

“Hmm?”

Sherlock swallows awkwardly.

“Will you…hug me?”

John’s head pops up comically fast as he swivels in his chair.

“Yeah, of cou-”

“It’s an experiment.”

Physical contact has potential; hugs are scientifically proven to be beneficial. Just the right amount of pressure around the torso, a moment of comfort and intimacy; such a simple gesture can have such a powerful effect. Humans are social, herd animals, and to feel the touch, the proximity to others, is a requirement hard wired into our very DNA. Hugs can lower the heartrate, the blood pressure, producing endorphins to the point where the brain releases oxytocin; a hug can physically reduce stress, or even pain. Twenty seconds is all it takes.

“An experiment.” John’s voice is flat.

“It’s important to me.”

But John is stuck on that one word.

It _is_ an experiment. But it’s personal too. Sherlock wants to feel again. He wants to hurt, to _cry_ if he must _._ Because that pain is _his,_ and he needs it back to move forward. He wants to feel the good too, the  _redemption_ of John’s forgiveness, the relief, the joy that _must_ be there. He wants to show John, that to see him; it means more than he can say.

“I don’t want to be part of some fucking experiment Sherlock.”

He dumps the crossword in the trash, and storms off down the hall.

~

They have a case, and Sherlock’s true colours come bursting through.

A boring day, ends in a lot less boring chase. Oh, how he’s missed this. Sherlock is in the _zone,_ and it’s not long before everyone else fades well into the background. Sherlock is _fast,_ and while the suspect may be an athlete of sorts, he hasn’t been training none stop for two years, and he’s got absolutely _nothing_ on Sherlock.

At the end, it’s almost a sprint race. Sherlock overtakes him in a straight line and just stops dead.

Unable to pull up in time, the kid crashes into him. There’s a look of abject horror on his face, and it’s only then that Sherlock realises he’s smiling; from ear to ear. He probably looks deranged. Some might say it’s true. These days, they may very well be right.

There’s a short struggle, but even when a knife is pulled, it’s not much of a contest. Sherlock is never in any real danger of being stabbed, but the attempt irritates him. So he breaks a seventeen year old’s arm, and sweeps his legs out from under him in one smooth motion.

By the time John shows up with the police, Sherlock is looking up a menu for the closest Chinese on his phone, as the suspect lays cuffed at his feet; crying into the dirt.

Their reactions are confusing at first. He’s caught their murderer, solved the case in three hours, and no one has to work overtime, so why is no one smiling? They all just stare. John is _not_ happy, and Lestrade looks vaguely disturbed. Sherlock frowns and scans their faces. No one comes near him.

“What?”

The suspect wails at his feet, and John doesn’t even turn his head, walking straight past him to assess the boy. Sherlock turns on the spot, body following John’s movements like a magnet, confused, wondering what he did wrong.

“Lestrade, call an ambulance.”

It’s then Sherlock realises he's gone just one step too far; breaking the arm was unnecessary, and it’s a nasty one too. This is bad, because two years ago, he wouldn’t have done that. He would just have knocked him over, because in the civilian world; violence has consequences, and now the police may well have a lawsuit on their hands.

But Sherlock got carried away with the adrenaline of the chase, he was having _fun,_ and it’s alarming how easily he slipped back into the man he _can_ be, but shouldn’t. That man is dangerous, and if Sherlock allows this to happen again, things _will_ get out of hand.

John is silent in the cab; he’s seen the ugly side of Sherlock now, and he’s sickened by it. Sherlock is furious with himself. That life is meant to be behind him; pushed into a tiny corner somewhere, walls bricked up around it. Because he could have stopped himself at any point; but without that extra little bit of empathy to rein him in, it just never really occurred that he _should._

Sherlock tries to apologise to John, but he only shakes his head and announces its bedtime.

~

Sherlock wakes up angrier than usual.

Normally it just sort of simmers away in the background, more of a defence mechanism than anything else.

Mycroft bears the brunt of it; Sherlock is all out of favours, and there’s nothing petty to hold over his head anymore. Mycroft has lost his leverage, and while Sherlock could very easily solve any one of his cases, he wants that message to be very clear. If his brother wants something, he’s just going to have to ask _nicely._

Then Sherlock will decide if he feels like it.

He makes the police ask nicely as well. The Chief Inspector hates him more than ever now because there’s nothing he can do about it. They’ve got nothing on him, they can’t fire him because he isn’t on the books, and they can’t refuse to work with him. Because MI5 have the police by the balls, MI5 answers to MI6, and MI6 is really quite fond of him at the moment.

The Chief Inspector has probably already called for his immediate exclusion, but the order will come from all the way up, and it will only be to stop bitching and get on with it; whether he likes it or not. Sherlock smirks at his office door every time he walks by.

By all intents and purposes; it’s Sherlock calling the shots. He doesn’t need big brother’s power and influence now. And everyone knows it.

It’s a good feeling. Sherlock Holmes is vindicated, and stronger than ever.

This is Sherlock’s _life,_ and now he’s taking it _back._ The dial is up to one hundred percent, and Sherlock is on fire. It’s been two years, but he’s still here, he’s still fighting, and he will continue to do so until his very last breath. He's ready for all the universe will throw at him.

You’d think John would enjoy the schadenfreude element, especially concerning the Chief Inspector, but while Sherlock strides through Scotland Yard like he owns it (and he does), John’s pace is decidedly measured. Sherlock proves himself once and for all as a force to be reckoned with; but John isn’t sharing the victory.

One look at his face, and Sherlock hates it all.

~

 _Finally;_ everything goes tits up. In the worst possible way.

The Garridebs brothers are a thorn in Sherlock’s side. There’s a spate of quite frankly spectacular bank robberies, and everyone knows who’s responsible; but they can’t prove it, because they’re yet to catch them either with the money, or in the act.

They openly flaunt it, wielding plausible deniability and circumstantial evidence as a shield. The case started during Sherlock’s time away, but greedy though they may be, at least two of the three aren’t idiots. The timing is careful, making it difficult to predict which bank they’ll hit next.

Lestrade practically flings the case at him the moment Sherlock turns up at Scotland Yard; Sherlock is his guardian fucking angel, and Lestrade is running screaming for the hills. Even Donovan looks relieved. They may not like him, but no one cares about that right now, because when it comes to cases; he never lets them down. It’s not a question; Sherlock _will_ solve it, and there’s not a person in this incident room who isn’t pleased to see him.

Sherlock has been on his best behaviour, so even John is smiling, and the case is _magnificent._

It’s not long though, before Sherlock loathes it with a passion. He claims the conference room he likes the look of most, and spends three days waging war on paperwork, casenotes, pictures, and pre-scheduled staff meetings _._ It’s tricky, but he thinks he’s getting close; figuring out the options for the next strike. They know when it will be, because Sherlock hears whispers from every street in London. The homeless are invaluable; they know _everything._

There’s four banks; it’s impossible to narrow it down more than that, seems the force will be stretched a bit thin tonight. He picks the one he suspects to be their most likely option, spreading Lestrade, Donovan, and Dimmock across the rest. It’s a big one, and all the cavalry want to be there when they nail them.

It was only a feeling; but at least when it comes to The Work, Sherlock is always right. Mycroft be damned. The Garridebs come in, and Sherlock is literally sitting on the money. He loves the looks on their faces; he never could resist a touch of drama, and he shoots them a winning smile.

But it seems Sherlock’s return has shaken the criminals of London in more ways than one. With the raised chances of being caught, there’s more of a deterrent, but unfortunately; there’s all the more reason not to come unprepared.

The Garridebs brothers don’t conduct heists. They don’t take hostages, they strike at night, and never enter through the front door; that’s where mistakes happen. No; they bypass bank security, gain access by other, more creative means, and head straight for the vaults.

As such; they have no need for guns.

Tonight, they seem to have changed their minds.

Sherlock installed a camera, and both he and John bear witness, so there’s no avoiding a conviction now. But they can still escape, still have their revenge. Standing next to Sherlock’s throne of bank notes, John’s weapon is out; but two of the brothers are also armed, and Sherlock’s crossed legs will cost him valuable time in taking cover.

Inexcusable Arrogance.

Not a word is said. The police will arrive soon; Sherlock hit the silent alarm just seconds after the sound of footsteps, but that doesn’t help their immediate predicament. Metropolitan police officers do not carry guns. Best case scenario, it becomes a heist after all; hostages present and accounted for.

Sherlock thinks he’d make a frankly awful hostage. Plan B it is.

Sherlock shares a glance with John, and together they are decided; they’re taking white on the chessboard. The first move is theirs. Plan B is not ideal, but damn the consequences.

John shoots the first brother unprompted, as Sherlock rolls sideways from the stack. Brother number one; out of play. He sprints along the side, ducking beneath the next pallet, just in time to avoid the bullets zipping past him. As the second brother exchanges fire with John, Sherlock hits the third from his flank; one to the face, grab the hair, knee to the sternum, head smashed against the pole.

That’s two for Sherlock and John, nil for the Garridebs.

He turns around just in time to see the bullet hit John squarely in the chest. And a second. A third. A _fourth._

His heart stops, as the second brother turns and aims the barrel directly at Sherlock’s face. No one can beat him hand to hand, and they’re close enough that, if very, _very_ lucky; he might just win. Only he doesn’t make a single move; mind utterly frozen.

_JohnJohnJohnJohnJohnJohnJohn_

There’s a loud bang, originating somewhere close to where John went down. Garrideb two screams; staring down at the blood spurting from his ankle. The bullet has gone straight through, and he may never walk straight again. The distraction is enough to snap Sherlock’s head back into gear, and Sherlock takes the opportunity to slam his fist into the man’s nose; again, and again, and again. He goes down, and Sherlock’s rage takes over; stamping down on the injured ankle, revelling in the crack.

Sherlock seizes the fallen weapon. He’ll make it slow, see just how many holes he can put into him before he gurgles and _dies_.

“Sherlock, no.”

The voice is weak; but it’s unmistakably John’s. Sherlock forgets anything else exists in the world. John. John is wounded.

Sherlock throws the loaded gun over his shoulder, and launches himself over the closest pallet.

John is lying in plain sight; no cover to protect him from the hail of bullets. He didn’t take cover, too busy watching Sherlock’s back.

There are moments in life where time stops, and all you can feel is one singular point of terror. It’s instant nausea, it’s the breath stuttering in your chest, every organ dropping, the ice crystallising down your spine. It’s that one thought that eclipses all else, that one feeling, that one, two letter word.

_“No no no no no.”_

Sherlock falls to his knees in a puddle of John’s blood, hands roaming for the wound. There’s a voice begging, and he doesn’t realise at first who it is; doesn’t care because John Watson has been shot. He is capable of nothing but that one thought.

The visible blood is originating solely from a graze on his thigh, but John is coughing, breathing restricted, making it difficult to speak. There’s something John desperately wants to say, but a pressure in his chest chokes the words. Lungs. Oh god it’s in his lungs. There are four holes in John Watson’s shirt.

He tears it nearly in two as he forces it open. Only one button survives.

Again, Sherlock’s heart stops. He looks up; stares at John, eyes wide, still shaking with adrenaline.

John smiles.

Sherlock starts laughing; because he fully intends to snog Gregory Lestrade at the first opportunity. Sherlock walked away at the offer of a vest, deleting it as irrelevant five seconds later; but with his back turned, and the conversation pushed from his mind; he never saw Lestrade force one onto John.

He doesn’t even stop to help John out of it; laughing uncontrollably, too hard to move. He’s crying. Because it’s hilarious isn’t it? John’s not dying; he’s barely even bleeding. He’s alive and it’s so _funny_. Funny enough that Sherlock can’t stop.

John is fine, and isn’t that just hysterical?

One of the Garridebs moans in the background, and that only adds to it; circumstantial background comedy. Sherlock nearly killed them all, but they don’t have to worry anymore, because _they_ didn’t kill _John_.  He looks to John, expecting them both to burst into renewed giggles. But John isn’t laughing; even his smile has faded.

His concern is even funnier, because he wouldn’t be frowning if he were dead. And he’s _not_ , he’s perfectly fine.

John struggles to get himself out of the vest, removing the pressure on his sternum. The bruises are _brilliant_ , because they’re only bruises. Sherlock starts laughing harder still.

His eyes and nose are running constantly, and his ribs hurt from the strength of it. Even his cheeks are uncomfortable; unused to so much smiling.

Something in his brain shifts.

John could have died.

John nearly ceased to exist.

John Watson; gone forever.

John Watson; dead.

There’s not a single element of this entire situation that is funny or amusing in any possible way.

He tips his head back against the frankly excessive pile of money, and cries like he never has before. John talks to calm him down; but Sherlock hasn’t the slightest intention of listening.

How could he do this to John, put him in such a position? They weren’t taking cover, why weren’t they?! Because Sherlock was too busy _showing off._

John was shot. He was shot four times. Four bullets to the chest.

He missed John for _years;_ ached to see him. John is here, he’s right here in this room. John. It’s John. John is alive.

And Sherlock is _heartless_. Because he nearly _wasn’t._ Instead of going to him; he took on Garrideb number two. Those few critical seconds could have meant John’s death without appropriate medical aid, they could have been Sherlock’s one and only chance to save him. Oh, he’d almost certainly have been shot, but how could he possibly pass up the opportunity to _save John Watson’s life?!_

Only, that’s exactly what he did. Sherlock left him for dead.

“John _please_ , forgive me, please.” He’s mumbling like a madman, barely aware of the actual words behind the sentiment.

John pulls Sherlock to his chest. He’s saying he does, and Sherlock wants it to be a lie. Does John even know what he’s forgiving?

Sherlock would have shot himself within the hour, guaranteed. This time, and the last. Because if _John_ threw himself from a roof, if Sherlock had to _watch_ that, and John were dead; how could he bare to live without him a single day? He’d not even have made it to the funeral; perhaps they'd have shared one. It's a nice thought.

He cannot imagine the thoughts running through John’s head, what he lived through. Two years alone and broken, two years without John; that is worse a fate than anything Serbia had install. And he had the _audacity_ to do that to him; force John to live a life Sherlock never could himself.

Cruelty in excelsis.

Two years.

So many dead people.

Absolutely shocked; John only pulls him closer as Sherlock descends into full-blown hysterics. He claws at John’s back as grief takes over; screaming into John’s chest.

It’s not just a release; he’s out of control, and it’s a lot more than he bargained for.

Wishing for the pain made sense at the time, but when it all floods in at once, he realises his mistake. He’d removed himself so far from feeling, that he didn’t even know what it _was_ he was pushing down; what lay waiting to tear him apart.

Everything they did to him, everything he did to himself, to others, all the millions of pieces he lost. More trauma than he ever knew he had.

Whatever part of his mind that has been hiding this has blown apart with the shock of John being shot, unable to cope for another second. Deep inside his chest; something is burning him from the inside out. He barely sounds human, and has never felt more so in his life.

It doesn’t even occur to him that John is terrified, too consumed by the volcano in his chest, erupting and pushing his mind to insanity. It’s unclear what will be left beneath the ash. It lasts forever; every tiny pinprick of fear, anger, loneliness, pain. It’s true grief, anger for the terrible things that happened to him, the toll on his heart from everything he sacrificed.

He screams until his voice is shredded, constantly grabbing for John as his mind swirls down. The screaming stops eventually, but the crying does not. Silent now, but steady, he falls back against the pallet. John is begging him to stop, apologising for nothing he did, repeating a chant of his name mixed in with swear words and the occasional reference to God.

Sherlock’s heart is back, and it’s bleeding. As for his conscience, well; it fully intends to punish him until his very last breath. The timing of their re-entrance is getting them off to a very good start. He’s absolutely _losing_ _it;_ in the middle of an investigation, on the floor of a bank vault, surrounded by criminals waiting for their arrest. The police will come bursting in at any moment, and John is freaking out.

“Sherlock _please_.”

But Sherlock is taking inconsolable literally, heart tearing his mind apart.

The police are loudly announcing their approach, and John grabs Sherlock by the shoulders, drags him half to his feet, hiding him behind a safe on the furthest side of the vault. Sherlock appreciates it more than he could say, the last thing they need is to have his complete and utter breakdown on full display. He imagines it would be quite difficult to explain.

“I’ll be back, I promise.”

Then John is gone.

~

He’s not entirely sure what he’d been expecting, but the scene they walk into is a complete shitshow. One of the brothers has been shot in the hip and looks half way to death, one of them has had the shit kicked out of him and is unconscious on the floor.

But it’s the third who’s the worse; he’s partially conscious, and his face is in a really bad way. Greg’s not really sure what happened to the left ankle, but it doesn’t look right, or even much like an ankle at all. John, minus shirt, is currently tending the one who’s been shot, and looks up somewhat guiltily.

Sherlock is nowhere to be found, and the surveillance camera looks like it’s been destroyed at some point too. Deliberately. There’s carnage _everywhere_. Greg doesn’t want to think it; but this has Sherlock written all over it. Sometimes now, he borders on scary.

“John, what the _fuck_?”

John grimaces, gesturing to the police issue vest sprawled out in a small patch of blood. _It has four holes in it._

“They were armed Greg, and determined to kill us.”

They both know it’s a bit of a stretch for the self defence plea, so he ignores that for now and latches onto the ‘us’ part instead.

“Where is he? John, _where’s Sherlock?”_

John grimaces again, and panic grips his chest, Christ, please let him be okay.

“Damn it John, is he alright?!”

John nods, but his face says no. Greg just hopes to god that doesn’t mean he’s been shot. They all know he didn’t have a vest, and despite what he may think; he’s not bloody bullet proof. Sherlock could be bleeding out in an OR right now for all he knows. It’s not like both of them could leave the scene, especially not with the suspects in such a state. But he can’t see any blood that’s unaccounted for, and John looks too calm for that.

“I’ll explain later, right now I need to get this man to hospital; he’s stable, but he’s lost a bit of blood.”

Greg sighs, and calls for the paramedics. It takes a long time to go through the scene, and John, who skipped the ride in the ambulance, looks more and more uncomfortable as time goes on. He’s worried, and Greg thinks more and more about the empty space at his side.

Is Sherlock not here to avoid implicating himself somehow, or is he really injured? Usually John would be out of here by now, rushing off with, or to find, that brilliant idiot, but instead he hangs around helping the forensics crew. It feels wrong on so many levels; where the _fuck_ is Sherlock, and why isn’t John _with_ him?

With John’s help, it’s over in about an hour and a half. John practically throws the guys out of the room like it’s his own house. Eventually, it’s just the two of them, and as soon as John deems the scene clear, he dashes to the back of the vault, talking softly.

Sherlock never left at all.

John leads him out, and Greg gives him a once over; not injured. But _my god_ is he in a state. Because John is _literally_ pulling him, arm around his shoulder, feet following automatically. His face is utterly blank, nose running, eyes red, tear tracts for Africa. Greg’s heart stutters in his chest.

Sherlock doesn’t so much as glance in his direction; absolutely wrecked. What the hell happened in this room?

John takes him home without another word.

~

Sherlock spends all night on the sofa, staring into space. John sits next to him for hours, neck growing progressively stiffer as the sun slowly begins to creep over the cityscape.

John has seen a lot of things in his life; his father’s fists turned on his mother, Harry finding escape at the bottom of a glass. He’s held arteries together with his bare hands; men whose eyes begged him, men he couldn’t possibly save. The sick things of war; men, _his_ men killing the innocent, taking trophies from the dead.

He’s listened to his best friend’s suicide note in real time. And then he watched him die.

Seeing Sherlock lose control like that has him shaken, and he still doesn’t understand what happened. One moment Sherlock was laughing, the next he was _screaming._ He was screaming, and he wouldn’t stop.

Rage. Grief. Agony.

The echoes of Sherlock’s screams drag into the longest night of his life.

John shares the moment, they stay awake, just sitting there, absolutely numb. Once dawn breaks, John ends it, gently extracting Sherlock from the sofa and taking him to bed. Sherlock is pliant like a sleepwalker, ghosting down the hall where John leads, but he doesn’t blink; not once has John has seen him blink all night. It’s extremely disturbing.

His eyes are far too dry and have a painful reddish tinge to them; potentially damaging the corneas. John knows he has to do it, even as his gut rolls and breathing hitches. He almost can’t bring himself to move, mentally ‘oscillating on the pavement,’ fists clenching white knuckled at his side.

The symbolism is horrific, and not something he’d ever been prepared to do, not even that day at St. Barts.

With two fingers, John gently pulls Sherlock’s eyelids closed.

~

All night, John sat with Sherlock, but the last thing he can do is sleep. Sherlock is not a vegetable, he’s not unconscious, or catatonic, and he’s _not_ dead. He’s hiding in his own head, but a palace is a big place, and Sherlock has been so far away for so long now. John tries hard not to think of the Glasgow Scale, and just prays he remembers the way out.

~

When he opens his eyes, it’s in more way than one, and it comes with a conviction stronger and brighter than a lattice of carbon.

Sherlock has come to his senses.

~

The energy in the room seems to shift, and John gets the sense of being watched.

Sherlock is standing in the middle of the living room, not two metres away, shoulders squared, chin held high with confidence, and it’s a long cry from the devastation of the bank vault. But something else is different too. John looks, and he doesn’t see Sherlock Holmes, The World’s Only Consulting Detective. That man standing there? That’s John’s best friend, the Sherlock he recognises. Finally.

All this time, a piece has been missing, John searched and searched Sherlock’s eyes and never caught a glimpse. He can see it now.

 _Passion_.

John didn’t believe in the existence of auras, all his life he thought it was ridiculous, and it probably still is. But Sherlock’s presence, his energy, that _passion_ ; you feel it rising out of him like steam. Excitement, mischief, anger, misery; his moods expanding into the room, surrounding John in their bubble.

Sherlock is looking at nothing but him, but this time, the intensity isn’t uncomfortable.

“I’m all in John.”

John’s heart leaps into his throat, and he damn near chokes on it. It’s the way he says it; without hesitation or apology, Sherlock is throwing away the pretences.

He could pretend, plead ignorance, he could lie. But John understands _exactly_ what Sherlock means, and they both know it.

Sherlock Holmes has been in love with him for three years, and John didn't see it; not until his funeral. Sherlock held back, he never said a word, and John never thought he’d live to hear him say it. But Sherlock’s done hiding, he’s not holding back this time. He’s _All In_.

 “Everything.”

After years of dancing around it, he’s put everything on the table, just like that. All John has to do is show his hand. It’s the risk of a lifetime, hurling himself over this cliff; John could take him for everything he has and walk away. Sherlock knows that, and he said it all the same.

And John is terrified.

Terrified to jump, even when he’s been falling for years.

John searches his face. If John says no, there’s no taking this back for Sherlock. He’ll never say those words to anyone else. Because Sherlock doesn’t _do_ this, and what he’s offering, it isn’t just a relationship. John knows what _All In_ means. _All In_ is forever.

But Sherlock doesn’t look afraid.

He’s just given John everything he is, he's holding Sherlock Holmes' heart in his hands, and John has given him nothing but silence. Sherlock is watching him calmly, and John finds only resolve looking back. His expression hasn’t changed, uncharacteristically patient. The pressure is huge, but not deliberate; Sherlock won’t blame him if he walks away.

John needs to make a decision, and he’s shitting himself.

~

Sherlock sees the fear in John’s eyes.

And he has no idea what he’s thinking.

John is silent.

His heart is racing.

But Sherlock has never been surer of anything in his life. He’s not giving up, not this time. He’s hurled himself in head first, and he’ll wait until the end of time if he must.

~

John looks at Sherlock Holmes. His genius, his madness, his _passion_.

The decision was made a long time ago, he was just too much of a coward to see it.

Sherlock won’t breathe those words to anyone else, but neither will John.

“ _All In_.”


End file.
